Keep Breathing
by Flame.of.Ishval
Summary: ... in which Sherlock (unconsciously intentionally) overdoses on heroin.


In.

Out.

_Just keep breathing._

He labors to take each slow, shallow breath, trying to keep afloat in the darkness that threatens to slam the door shut on his mind. It's so very hard just to keep breathing and he's not sure he's doing a very good job of it. Each breath seems slower, shallower than the last, and he can feel the darkness spreading over him.

He screwed up and he knows he did.

He screwed up the day after John and Mary's wedding when he'd paced through his Baker Street flat, unable to deal with the pain he felt whenever he saw a reminder of John, however small it was. And there were many. The assortment of basic grocery store teas in the cabinet. The contents of the refrigerator. The Union Jack pillow on the couch. The awful lumpy armchair in front of the fireplace.

He'd made the very bad choice of dragging the chair into John's room, which had gaped at him, empty of most its former contents, but so stuffed with reminders of John it had taken Sherlock hours to pull himself together and make it back down to the living room. And that's when he'd screwed up by begging Bill Wiggins to supply him with drugs, just so he could quiet his mind and dull the pain in his heart to a miserable, constant ache. It hadn't been enough. But it had been better than nothing.

In.

Out.

_For God's sake. Why is it so hard to breathe?_

For a few days, he'd alternated between pacing in his bedroom, desperately trying to find a way to silence Mycroft's voice that echoed around his head, hounding him for being _so stupid _to ever think John would wait for him (or stay with him), and laying on the leather sofa in the living room, letting the morphine quiet his thoughts and dull his pain. After those first few days, it was no longer enough, as neither the voice nor the pain stopped. He'd tried other things. He'd thrown away the teas that were mocking him in the kitchen. He'd shoved the contents of the refrigerator into the bin. He'd thrown things. He'd smashed his violin, now a reminder of the waltz he'd played at the wedding, against the mantelpiece. He'd cried. Horrible, sobbing cries that didn't even sound human. Eventually, he'd gone to get heroin.

In.

Out.

Shallow. Slow. Everything around him was dark, his eyelids too heavy to lift. His body felt so heavy, so tired, and so sore. He didn't know how he'd wound up on the wooden floor, but he was aware of the edges of individual floorboards pressing into his back. He was aware of the wrinkles of his gray T-shirt, the way his pajama pants were bunching at the knees. He was aware of how cold his feet and hands felt. He was aware of the smooth glass of his cell phone underneath the fingertips of his right hand. He would have given anything to be able to send a text to John right now.

_Please, help me!  
–SH_

He was aware of the tear running down his cheek as he fought to take another breath. He knew he wasn't doing a good job, that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He could imagine his cold fingertips turning blue. _Cyanotic _was the proper word. He had no idea if it had been _bad _heroin, if there was something _wrong _with the thing itself. He wasn't sure he hadn't overdosed, perhaps with unconscious intent (if there was such a thing). He was only sure that this wasn't what he'd meant to do. He'd meant to shut up Mycroft's voice that was mocking him and _make the pain go away. How stupid that sounded._ His mouth felt dry. He struggled for another breath.

In.

Out.

The only thing he wanted in the entire world was John – _his John _– back at Baker Street where he belonged, not off on his honeymoon with Mary. Mary, the liar. The woman he couldn't figure out. The woman who'd taken his John from him, leaving nothing but an empty, painful, blank space in his chest where his heart had been. Mycroft's voice vaguely swam back into his mind, always mocking. _People don't stick around for the likes of you. _He felt cold. So cold.

In.

Out.

_God, Sherlock, why do you bother, _Mycroft's voice said. _Just do us all a favor and stop breathing, for God's sake. You're pathetic. You can't even die correctly. _

In.

Out.

Vaguely, Sherlock heard footsteps moving up the stairs to the flat. _Two pairs of feet?_ His heart clenched up with anticipation. _John! Please, oh please, let it be John. Let him come back. Let him find me! _But then his heart twisted uncomfortably. _If it's two pairs of feet, _said Mycroft's voice, _it'll be John and Mary. They won't be here for you. They'd be here to come and get some small thing he's forgotten when he moved out. They won't even notice you. _Sherlock gave a small, strangled sound of despair. He heard fragmented voices outside the door.

"… must not be home," the female voice said. "I haven't heard any movement in at least two days." _Oh. Mrs. Hudson, _his brain sorted out for him. That was Mrs. Hudson's voice on the other side of his door.

"Where else would he be!" the male voice demanded. "That smackhead friend of his was pretty damn insistent someone needed to check on him. Hasn't heard from him in days, he said. And he's not answering his phone. I've tried!" _That voice. Who? Not John. But who? Come on, make the connection already! Why was this so difficult! Oh. Oh, of course. Lestrade. _

He gasped, trying to draw another breath, feeling himself slip further into the darkness. _No. Not now. They are right on the other side of the door. Oh, God. Let them find me. Please let them find me. _He heard a hand rattle the door knob.

"It's never locked," Mrs. Hudson offered, matter-of-factly. "He'd never lock it if he were home. He must've gone out."

_Oh, God, no. _Sherlock struggled to make a sound, any sound, anything at all. Instead, he could barely manage to draw another breath, the fingertips of his right hand laying limply on the screen of his cell phone, his left brushing the wooden floor boards in front of the couch. The voices began to sound very far away indeed and he could not understand what they were saying, but Lestrade's was raised, angry, Mrs. Hudson's exasperated in response. He attempted to draw another breath as silence began pressing in on his ear drums. _Just one more breath._

Then he felt it, a faraway shattering of the door jamb as Lestrade kicked the lock and caused the door to slam open, spraying splinters into the room. He felt the floor move, tiny earthquakes of rushed, panicked footsteps coming closer to his dying body that refused to draw another breath. He didn't hear them, he only felt them. He felt Lestrade's fingers, warm against his neck, fumbling for a pulse. _Was there one? _He felt Lestrade's face close to his own. _Was he checking for breathing? Am I still breathing? I'm still here. Don't let this be it. _He felt another tear spill from his eye and forced himself with all he had left to take another small, shallow, ineffective breath, feeling Lestrade so close to him, his warm hand still on his neck.

XXX

Sherlock has a vague memory of a far away flashing of red and white lights somewhere above and behind him. _Wait, did that make sense? _A bright light shining into his eyes. A gagging feeling in his throat, followed by the relief of an actual, deep, functional breath. A kind of swaying motion below him. _Wait, what? How? _Then, for a very long time, nothing at all except darkness. A hand, touching his arm. And again, nothing for an eternity.

XXX

Sherlock lays flat on his back in the hallway of his mind palace, watching a gray mist envelop him like a cloud. He imagines that this is what it would be like to float on a cloud, if such a thing were possible. _Except a lot less wet,_ his inner voice says. _Clouds are wet._ The childish simplicity of the thought bothers him. It feels unformed, awkward. He doesn't remember ever having a thought that felt like this.

He tries to focus on the ceiling above him, but he only sees blankness, vaguely clouded in the grayish mist that covers all of his hallway. He tries to feel the smooth, marble floor that should be below him, but his fingertips feel cloth instead. From somewhere, the smell of bleach intrudes, rubs raw the inside of his nostrils, announces its presence. Then something else mingles in, another smell. One that is warm, familiar, but that he can't quite place. He drifts back into darkness.

XXX

The next time Sherlock opens his eyes, it's into the half-darkness of a room with cheap ceiling tiles. A dried, yellowish water spot is just to the right of the spot he's trying to fix his vision on. It swims in and out of focus as he attempts to force his eyes to adjust. He feels as if he is blinking in slow-motion. He feels immobile, disoriented. Little by little, his eyes begin to focus on the ceiling tile, then he drops his gaze and looks around, carefully, as if expecting it to be a mirage.

He's lying on his back, his upper body slightly raised, positioned relatively comfortably. He can feel the sheet underneath his body, the firmness of the mattress. He realizes he's naked under the light blanket that covers him. Across from him, past his feet, past the end of the bed, is a closed door. The door is light blue and has a narrow, rectangular window just above the door handle through which he can see bits of what appears to be a hallway. On the wall to the right of him is a window, covered in vertical blinds that are shut. Behind him, he can hear vague machine-like noises. He's not yet ready to try and move any more than this. His body still feels heavy and disconnected, like he hasn't quite been put in control. He drifts back to sleep.

XXX

When he wakes up again, it's the first time Sherlock realizes he's breathing and it feels easy. His eyes are closed and he listens to his breaths, feels the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest under the covers. In and out. Easy, regular, light, comfortable breaths. He takes a very deep breath in, holds it, breathes out slowly. He smiles to himself. He can't remember ever having felt happier about the simple act of breathing and the fact that it meant he was alive.

Then he slowly becomes aware of a second set of breaths in the room with him, easy and regular as his own. As his senses begin working, he becomes aware of the faint scents of another person in the room – a little remnant of aftershave, a touch of deodorant, a bit of laundry soap, a hint of body odor. The smells are warm, familiar, comforting. He notices the feel of pressure, warmth, a little bit of moisture, on his hand – another hand, cupping his own. Normally, he doesn't like to be touched, recoils at the idea of contact with others, because it seems _silly_, pointless, really. It has always felt awkward. This touch is comforting. It makes him feel calm.

He turns his head slightly, slowly, on the pillow. It's still hard to move. He feels worn out and not in control. He opens his eyes, blinks into the faint light falling in through the half-opened blinds now. The gray sky outside suggests an overcast, rainy London day. He looks at the figure seated in the chair at his bedside, head rested on the bed, Sherlock's hand cupped in his own. Sherlock's heart skips a beat.

John has come back for him.


End file.
